Letting Go of My "Eggo"Elizabeth Tess Thompson

Topic of your choice.

The pale pink room was filled with too-bright morning light. High up on the Himalayan mountainside, the monastery had a sweeping view of the fog-covered village below.

The portly monk continued, in strained English, why I wasn’t real, and everyone laughed good-naturedly. This specific topic had taken up the better part of our meditation class today. My eyes wandered past him. In the center of our meditation room stood a six-foot decorative altar, inside of which a particularly pious monk’s mummified body was preserved. There was even a small window, displaying the shrunken, linen-wrapped head. Long ago, he led a gruesome journey across the mountains, escaping occupied Tibet. The young man used his holy monks' robes to rappel down jagged cliffs, and tore them into pieces to wrap around his bleeding feet. The petrified body was considered quite holy, and inspired reverence in the Buddhist visitors. Despite the shimmering array of lotus flowers and bright paint, the blatant display of death unsettled me. I resisted the urge to stare, focusing once more on our teacher; he was still lecturing about my state of existence.